Fill Our Hearts With Thoughts Of Endless Nighttime Sky
by ImpossibleElement
Summary: When a baffling case challenges everything they know, Sherlock and John will have to put an important personal matter aside to solve it before their lives as they know it are destroyed. - "Where are we going?" Asked the soldier, following his friend's silhouette to the next house on the row. The detective seemed to have forgone that sour mood he had before and was now portraying
1. The Talking Darkness

**Chapter 1:**

 **The Talking Darkness**

The nighttime wind blew softly against her skin. The sinister wet sound of the grass beneath her feet was close to deafening. Her breathing came out in short spurts, erratic and shallow; but she didn't have the luxury of time to worry about that tiny detail, because if she did not keep going, keep running, _it_ would catch up with her, and there would be no point. No matter how impossible it would seem, how she never would have anticipated it, it was still there, and it was gaining up on her. Something lurking in the darkness was giving her chase, coming out of the shadows in a haze of fright, and if she faltered for even a moment, she would be lost.

— o —o—

"What an idiotic waste of my time." Sherlock grumbled, while throwing himself on the sofa in a highly dramatic manner. His dressing gown fell over slicing through the air like a curtain of mystery; it only seemed to add to the eerie theatrical effect. John was not sure he was in the right disposition to actually handle one of the detective's monumental destructive moods at the moment. Specially not when things had been particularly weird between them lately.

"You've got to admit it's a bit odd, though." He commented, trying in vain to entice his friend into accepting the case _, any_ case. Acknowledging the spooky feeling he got about this one. The curly-haired man was close to shooting the walls again, and the doctor feared that if they stood still for one more moment, they would have to face that which they had avoided the whole week —the whole of their acquaintance if everyone else was to be believed— and that collision was something he could not allow. Not yet, at least. He was waiting for the right moment. At this point, a simple visit to Bart's would make him grateful.

When Sherlock turned his face around and decided to grace him with one of his usual cold stares, the blogger knew he had failed miserably. "Oh, for God's sake! Don't tell me you believe it." The mock and exasperation in his voice made John a bit more than annoyed. Clenching his hands, he sat down on the armchair; doing his best to calm down and refrain from appearing in the 3 o'clock news for throttling his flatmate.

"No," He replied slowly, barely a whisper cutting through the silence of the silver sky. "But it _is_ suspicious-" The blonde stopped talking at the huff with which the other graced him. Rudely interrupting and dismissing whatever he was about to say.

"And what?" The detective interrogated, standing up from his position in order to stalk closer to his friend. "That means his neighbor is a vampire? Honestly, John…" His words had a sharp edge impossible to match, but the older man could see something entirely different in his eyes; that calculating gaze that had been almost solely directed at him since little more than a week ago, John was not sure if calling him out on it would be a good idea.

"I'm not saying that," He replied instead. "I just think that maybe there is something else going on," His tone was calm and soft, creating a dichotomy with that of his anxious flatmate. "Sometimes you come to realise things are not what they appear." The doctor looked up at the curly-haired man's face; not knowing if he was still talking about the alleged un-dead acquaintance of the troubled client.

Sherlock abruptly stopped moving as if he had been stabbed. His confused pale face sloppily masked by the irritated glare he would always wear when clients were proving too stupid, and criminals too absent. The soldier held the stare, but willed himself to let the moment pass. This supposed case was the perfect embodiment of everything Sherlock hated about being widely known: too many paranoid people who were just sure someone they knew was a criminal —or in this case a blood-sucking killer going after their sister.

The detective seemed to remember he was outraged, and proceeded to continue with his rant. "He's clearly just a very moronic unemployed man with a pair of binoculars and way too much free time. His neighbor is certainly not a vampire, and definitely _not_ worth my time." He concluded and let himself fall heavily on the chair opposite to the one already occupied by the blogger.

"Well, then we won't take it." The doctor said, poking at the keys on his laptop. Trying to ignore the nagging in his brain that told him how bad an idea it was; he failed to determine why it sounded like such an urgent matter, why he felt as if something was watching him over his shoulder, but there was nothing else he could do. He was completely aware that his flatmate would not drop it. No for at least the whole of the afternoon; yet confronting him when he was so riled up was just cruel, not to mention a futile attempt to make the other calm down. It would only blow up into a strop of cosmic proportions which he wanted to avoid at any cost.

"I'm very close to resorting on pestering Mycroft for legwork." He muttered, tugging at his curls. His kaleidoscope eyes dancing around the misty ambience of the sitting room.

"Let's not get crazy, there." John joked, hoping to ease the tension. He was glad to see the corners of the other's mouth turn up; it may not be much, but it was a start. "I'm sure something else will turn up soon." He assured. "Come on, we can watch some crap telly and you can tell me if the butler could have actually stolen the earrings." The soldier turned on the television and settled in for what he wished would be a relatively quiet evening, hoping to forget all about supernatural beings and voices in the shadows. His friend seemed to relax fairly quickly and they spent the rest of the day in calm and friendly banter. All without knowing what morning would bring and how the next day would play out. A case that would change their whole lives.

— o —o—

Lestrade was phoning them since the sun came up, and Sherlock was frustrated with himself for the decision of sleeping in that late, and with John for not bothering to wake him up to check his phone. It was already seven, and he was missing out on some great fun. If the DI had a case, then his endless, tormenting, wakeful boredom would be over and the excitement he so missed would once again ignite his life.

"Lestrade," He impatiently spoke to the mobile eagerly pressed to his ear. "What have you got?"

The other in the line sounded hesitant, clearly baffled by what he was experiencing, which was all the proof the detective needed to deduce this one would be an interesting one, perhaps even a nine. "Well, I don't know how to explain this," Lestrade stumbled over his words as Sherlock waited with bated breath to know what the promising future adventure will gift them.

"It appears our victim, she-" However, once the end of that sentence came, he was very close to dropping the phone in surprise. "She was exsanguinated."

— o —o—

Author notes:

Hello. This is my eight-day Halloween story, let me know what you think and whether you believe what the client says could be real.

If you like it, come back tomorrow for more. In the meantime, drop by my other stories.


	2. What The Sun Brings

**Chapter 2:**

 **What the sun brings**

Once the impending shock had subsided, the two men put on their carefully constructed emotional protection and made their way to the crime scene. An uptown bleak neighborhood with rows of equally dull houses; nothing of true interest at first glance. Of course, that day the street was lined and swarming with officers and medics; a few ambulance sirens could be heard somewhere in the distance, among the tumultuous activity of the on-going investigation.

Sherlock walked through the doors and rooms of the house, his ever-perceiving eyes taking in every detail and John followed very close behind him as was the norm now. He stepped through the back door and out into the garden that bled out into the forest at the edges of the city; presumably where the corpse of the victim was located.

As they approached the body, something in the event gave the detective pause: Something was wrong. Something did not add up. For what Lestrade told him on the phone, the circumstances surrounding the murder seemed too bizarre to even be possible, and even if the genius always relied on his logical and analytic mind, the ambience on the scene felt off, like something was moving on the corner of his eye. He could not explain it, and the last thing he needed in this case was to fall victim to sentiment like that occasion in Baskerville. Still, he was not the only Consulting Detective in the world for nothing, and he had a few ways to contain that emotion and weaponize his intellect which only seemed to fail when certain army doctor was concerned. So he pulled himself together and confidently stalked towards the lifeless body.

The corpse was sprawled on the floor, in a position that would be hard to maintain had it not been completely devoid of any life. The forensics team were standing around the body, baffled; not even daring to touch it anymore, and just like that, words started materialasing in front of his eyes; words that described and attempted to uncover the person and situation that was displayed. _"Female, early thirties, unmarried, part-time job as a temp, brother, no parents, suffered from anxiety, meticulous about her appearance, struggling with money, two dogs —no, three dogs— amateur painter and organised. Old surgery scar above the chest, possibly lungs, probably pacemaker, recently traveled to France. Her body has been moved, cause of death unnatural enough to frighten professionals, the murderer was careful but brutal, most likely a male, cold, intelligent. DANGEROUS-"_ A tug on his arm brought him back to reality as John motioned him to look carefully at something he had observed from afar.

He knelt next to his friend, trying to appear casual on how he leaned slightly towards his warmth. Closeness to his blogger allowed him to stimulate his own thought process, which was what this mystery certainly needed. The other talked about decomposition and rigor mortis, which on his brain translated as: the body in front of him clearly didn't have enough hours of being dead to be in the state in which it was.

"I've never seen anything like this." The doctor said, while checking multiple signs across the body. The confusion etched upon his face was disconcerting. Usually, John could get a bit behind in the face of a mystery —although not as much as other people— but he was always steadfast and confident when it came to examining a body. He raised his face to search for the detective's eyes, communicating his bemusement.

"The brother found her an hour ago." Lestrade piped in, fracturing the fragile dynamic between their silent conversation. "But that's not all. The really odd part is it was approximately two hours after the possible time of death." He said as he stuffed his hands inside the pockets of his coat; this body made everyone uncomfortable.

"How can you be sure?" The blonde asked standing up from his position, while his flatmate was still bent over the corpse inspecting the two red, glaring puncture marks on her neck. "You can't possibly be sure based on the lividity in this case." He said, unconsciously tracking his friend's movements.

"She was at a party until 4:23 am. We have various witnesses. Everyone saw her leave." The older man explained, eyeing the proceedings with an air of reluctance, the genius could detect the unwillingness to be there as an open book. Perhaps it was the unseeming brutality of the murder, or probably he was still fighting with his wife.

"There are no signs of suction," Commented the soldier, "So a pump is out of the question." The blogger was accustomed to tragedy and death, but not in that way; not in a way that made you doubt how it was even possible. One would think living and working with Sherlock Holmes would have gotten him used to the most bizarre of circumstances, but that was clearly not the case. Not to mention this mind-twisting puzzle couldn't have arrived at a worse time; when things in their personal lives were finally progressing as he wanted them to.

"The body was drained naturally." Came the expected interruption from the younger man. "It was definitely moved, an attack like this would leave traces of blood." Sherlock stated while raising himself up, already storing the data away inside his Mind Palace. "The real crime scene would be found deeper into the woods judging by the special brand of mud on her knees." He gloved his hands and extracted a sample of said dirt from said trousers. "Once we find it, we will be able to shed more light on the matter of her death."

John nodded, not questioning his friend's words. Lestrade walked towards where the boffin was already retreating and said. "Sherlock, her body has been completely drained of blood, I'm quite sure _that's_ the way she died." The confusion of the police only served to exacerbate the boffin's simultaneous annoyance and excitement. The body was proving to be quite interesting, and just clever enough to provide the real distraction he needed since John decided to plant an undetonated bomb on his life and then dismiss the event altogether.

"As always Lestrade, you miss anything of importance." He turned around, raking his calculating gaze across their faces. "The cause of death is blatantly obvious, as you pointed out," The characteristic sarcasm and wit present as always, the two other men listened attentively; it made the detective glad that at least there were some people not stupid enough to dismiss what he said after seeing what he could do. "But there is no way to get the body drained fast enough for him to find in two hours, let alone to avoid a struggle, exsanguination alone cannot be employed directly, so how did her killer manage it?"

"Anderson says he can't think of any explanation for this." Lestrade commented, while the genius started ripping tree leaves from nearby, and the doctor stored them in bags for him.

"Well," Sherlock started. "Of that I'm not surprised." He said in a mocking tone that made the blogger grin manically even if he did utter a customary 'behave' to him. This companionship was the way they had always worked, and it will be how they uncover this mystery. Just as the detective was about to comment on the lack of evidence and how telling it was that this was a highly uncommon killer, a voice could be heard yelling from behind the tape.

"You!" He screamed in rage, looking directly at Sherlock. "I told you this was going to happen but you didn't listen," The curly-haired man never thought he would see the client again, maybe he had been too quick in assessing the situation and dismissing it. "And now my sister is dead!" The man yelled, balling his fists and walking swiftly towards them, trespassing into the crime scene.

The detective was fixed in shock, surely the universe would not be so lazy as to let this be the sole coincidence they experienced. "I told you," Samuel, the client he had called a useless moron for believing his sister was about to be murdered was rapidly making his way towards him. "The both of you!" He motioned to John too, and the blogger automatically stood straighter and moved slightly in front of his friend in defiance.

"Samuel, we assure you this is completely different-" He started saying, but the boffin could deduce he would not back down easily, if at all. Trying to reason with him was completely futile. The other officers at the scene had already stopped what they were doing and were gathering around to see what happened.

"No!" Samuel said, walking past the blogger and trying to grab at Sherlock. "You wouldn't help me, this is your fault! she is dead because of you!" The detective was completely frozen, and if it hadn't been for the soldier's quick reflexes that protected him as a human barrier, the furious client would have gotten a hold of him.

"We are going to get to the bottom of this to find her real killer-" Lestrade tried to placate him, as cops were grabbing him by the arms to remove him from the scene. But he was livid, possessed in his delusion and struggling against the hold. "You already know! I told you but you turned me away." He yelled, red in the face.

"Get him away from here." The DI barked,; leaving the two 'consultants' to gather themselves.

Samuel looked close to falling apart as he made his accusations. Sherlock could see the distrust in his gaze, clearly convinced of his fabricated theory. "I told you! you know who he is," He said as the others were dragging him away. " _What_ he is!" The emphasis in the word sent a dark shiver down Sherlock's spine. He knew it couldn't possibly be real, but the conviction with which he said it shook him to the core.

John was looking intently at the younger man, with a mixture of worry and possessiveness. "Are you alright?" The blonde asked him, holding his friend's arm in affection. Said detective nodded and shook himself out of the stupor he had been in. If he focused his brain power, this could be the greatest case they ever had, he just had to ignore the strange circumstances. Yes, Samuel's statement was unsettling, but it only made him want to solve the mystery even more. This puzzle deserved an answer, the only variable was: how will he come to get it?

The three of them looked down to the body in bewilderment, as if it contained all the questions of the known universe. "What the hell happened?" John asked in confusion.


	3. Interview With The Potential Vampire

Chapter 3: 

Interview With The Potential Vampire

Sherlock was quickly bouncing on the floor, confidently striding through the house and the officers. Excitedly making his way out and muttering all sorts of facts and hypothesis that had John struggling to keep up with his feet, let alone his break-neck-speed mind.

"Where are we going?" Asked the soldier, following his friend's silhouette to the next house on the row. The detective seemed to have forgone that sour mood he had before and was now portraying his usual active, almost playful self.

"We are going to have ourselves a chat with a vampire." He explained, smirking like the wicked child he was. Confusing the doctor at his 180 turn in perspective. He will never stop being amazed and baffled by this man. He just hopes this case doesn't turn out to be one of those where he works himself to the ground without food or sleep until he passes out.

"But, didn't you say you didn't believe in-?" John was cut off once again by his crazy flatmate; but this time he didn't mind much, his good mood was often contagious. Lately he found himself getting amused, rather than annoyed —much, mind you— by the odd customs of his detective. Except for the fact that he had probably messed it all up by bringing up the metaphorical elephant in the room.

"Of course I don't," Said friend commented. "But don't you think it is a bit coincidental that a client comes to us claiming his sister is about to be murdered and the very next day she turns up dead in the most bizarre of circumstances?" He asked, his wild eyes piercing the stare of the blogger, he did not wait for the other to reply and instead kept talking as was his usual way. "The idiot's mind probably misread antisocial sadism and violent tendencies and came up with creature of the eternal night."

John chuckled, "Fine," He said, if a bit confused. "So, now we are going to make some crazy clever stunt to break into his house to find out somehow?"

The other scoffed, striding intently closer towards the house. "Of course not, John." Sherlock said, stopping in front of the door and shuffling his feet on the welcoming mat. "We are going to ring the doorbell." He happily muttered and pressed the button, awaiting for the answer. "Hello, Mr. Masters. Mind if we come in?"

—o—o—

"So what brings you to my home, gentleman?" The man before him couldn't have been more alike to a ridiculously stereotypical vampire if he had actually jumped out of the pages of _'Dracula'_. The genius noticed he even had that mysterious flair about him that allowed anyone to convince themselves he was an immortal being — that is if you didn't posses the detective's intellect— as he flounced around the floor of his sitting room.

"My partner and I have a few questions." John explained, casually taking the direct and domestic approach to things. Giving him plenty of time to observe and analyse the room. The whole house had an antique look, as it often was with London housing, but this one was different; not only did the base structure and decoration was Victorian, but the furniture and scarce pieces of technology were terribly old-fashioned. Sherlock also noted particularly that there did not seem to be any reflective surfaces or materials around. Even the spoons for the tea appeared to be made of mate porcelain. Supposed vampire, indeed.

The man himself was much more of a mystery than his quarters, but not less predictable. A slicked-back raven hair tied in a perfect ponytail at the base of his skull; meticulous appearance down to his fingernails, and a big wine-red good-quality dressing gown draped smartly over his shoulders since he claimed they had arrived just as he was preparing for bed. Sherlock was prepared to laugh at the obviousness of the subject, except John made him promise he would keep all smiles and signs of mirth away from crime scenes. "Partner? How… modern." He remarked.

The jab about the defining of their relationship made him slightly hesitant, meeting his blogger's eyes for merely a second. It was still a sore subject for the both of them, who had had the same exact questioning in the air for an eternity. In addition, the way he muttered the adjetive had both of them frowning. John cleared his throat after a moment, and soldiered on as he often did. "It's about Ms. Hollens, your neighbor."

"Oh! such a dreadful business." Mr. Masters claimed, sitting in the chair across from John. "Poor woman, so young and full of life." After all the frankly absurd elements of comparison between him and those creatures, —which the curly-haired man readily wrote off as nothing more than an accidental source of amusement— there was one thing the boffin was not able to dismiss in its entirety; the way the man spoke caused something brutal to settle inside of Sherlock, that particular brand of polite hostility that just doesn't go away no matter how amiable his actual speech.

"Well, yes." His blogger continued on, shifting slightly on his seat in discomfort, he must be getting the same reaction to the other man as him. "We'd like to ask you what was your relationship with the victim." He asked, fiddling with his little note pad: _really nervous then_.

"I hardly knew her." The older man responded. "Nothing more than a casual acquaintance, you see." He turned to look at the boffin and smiled politely, his body language told him he was more stating the fact that he knew exactly what he was doing wandering around the room, than showing agreeableness. A silent threat wrapped up in civility. "I'm afraid my way of life does not allow me much of a social life."

Sherlock watched him lounge casually on the armchair. Glancing at his nails in nonchalance, this was a man who was completely confident he had the upper hand in the situation. The genius was seldom in a position were suspects didn't feel intimidated by his looming presence; that in itself was a source of endless excitement. "And what about her brother?" He inquired, leaning back on the mantle and smiling politely. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John raising an eyebrow at his facade.

"Her brother?" Mr. Masters asked, supposedly confused by the question, as if he didn't know the man who lived right next to him and seemed to be close enough to be able to draw a conclusion of his character —albeit wrong and completely ridiculous that it was.

The younger man smirked and eyed them both under through his lashes, wickedly enjoying what he was about to do. "Yes," He started, feigning indifference. "The one who accuses you of being a blood-sucking immortal."

The eyes of the suspect flashed with obvious outrage, but he managed to tramp down any other outward reaction to the statement. "That again?" He did not look exasperated, but enraged; more along the lines of frustrated. "What a foolish, imaginative man!" He exclaimed sitting straight on his chair, the boffin had hit a nerve. "I'm simply a very private man."

"So you would call this a coincidence, then?" Pushed Sherlock. Coming closer to the man, taking full advantage of his height with the other's seated position.

The other did not even flinch, standing up in defiance, too. "I fail to see what else it could be." His civil words contrasted perfectly with his actions, the silver-gazed man could feel his blogger's stance change at recognising the danger, ready to launch in his defense if needed.

"How… convenient." The detective muttered in excellent mirror from his earlier statement. With the madman now blocking the view a bit, the doctor had the idea to get his phone out and take pictures and video of the scene, in case the man actually confessed to anything while frenzied, not that it would hold in court, but it was better than nothing.

"Are you implying I'm involved?" Mr. Masters demanded in indignation. Sherlock was clearly getting to him, making him show his true colours, even if the polite front never wavered.

"Mr. Hollens says you used to follow her sister; stalk her even" The doctor interrupted, creating a safety net in which they could fall. "Sometimes bringing other people over at night only to never come out in the morning." He commented, helping his friend in trying to make him lose his patience and show his hand.

Instead, the other just closed off completely. "That just tells me he is the one who has been stalking me." He said forcibly retying the knot on his dressing gown. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes; but I'm going to have to ask you to leave my home." He walked to the door and opened it in an invitation to get out.

The dynamic duo made their way outside quickly, but in no way showing any real intimidation, it wouldn't do to show weakness in front of such a dangerous man. "And I will also ask you not to return unless it is to charge me with something." Their supposed vampire said as he banged the door closed, losing his composure for the only time.

"Well, that was of no use." John muttered storing away his mobile as they started walking away. Stuffing his hand inside his pockets, his shoulders hunched in obvious disappointment.

"Not at all." The detective smiled, and the curiosity immediately changed his soldier's expression. Hopeful for something interesting to come tumbling down his friend's mouth. The curly haired man obviously delivered.

"John, he may not be Count Dracula himself —although he would definitely would win one of those look-alike things," Sherlock said giggling, letting his friend join in on the fun. "But he is most likely the killer, we just have to find proof."

"And how the hell are we going to do that?" The blogger asked as they made a turn on the street corner and the detective stopped to raise his arm for a cab.

"By figuring out how our vampire drained his victim completely."


	4. Bats & Cobra Snakes

**Chapter 4:**

 **Bats & Cobra Snakes **

The drive to Bart's was swift and quiet, both of them too wrapped up inside their own restless thoughts to really allow for much conversation. Once inside the morgue they both felt invigorated in the best of ways, which probably speaks too much about their character.

Molly had already rolled the body out on the slab. The figure of Ms. Hollens laid down on the metal table like an offering. It was a tragic and baffling case, and there they both were, just trying to figure out how could someone had been able to achieve something as unusual and complicated to perfection in such short time. People did not usually bled out completely in less than two hours, and certainly not without any outside assistance expertly executed.

Both, the genius and the doctor, started examining her; with two different set of eyes that noticed what the other didn't. It usually was exactly what made them such an efficient team: their skills complimented each other seamlessly. However, that did not seem to help a lot in this case, after hours of observations and analysis, they still weren't anywhere near close to what they wanted to know. Every wild hypothesis got tramped down by new data. Molly had already gotten tried of watching them revising the same evidence and had gone home a few minutes before. The two of them sat alone in the uncomfortable lab stools going through every possibility they could conjure to try and explain the bizarre incident. John was ready to fall off from his seat in exhaustion, and his friend had discarded every sense of decorum and was ranting loudly from frustration.

"This is useless." The blogger interrupted the other and sighed. "Face it, we are not going to find out how he managed to drain her blood so fast. Not like this."

The detective glared at him, as if the mere suggestion that he would not be able to solve something was the worst insult anyone could give him – and it probably was.

"And what do you propose I do?" He questioned, raking his calculating gaze all over the doctor's figure. "Give up?" He uttered that last phrase in disgust, throwing his hands in the air.

"No," He answered. "But maybe we need to look at it from another angle." The blonde said and rubbed his eyes to get rid of the tiredness. He stood up and motion for the other to do the same.

"Like what? That he is actually a _vampire_?" The younger man laughed in half amusement and half annoyance, but refused to play along, even if he had done more ridiculous things for a case in his frankly mad life.

"What if he were?" John stood there, challenging. Willing the other to come out of his comfort zone and try something different.

"I've always known you were an idiot. But this is too far," He muttered, but his eyes were filled with mirth. "Even for you." John giggled too. Watching as the other man leaned on the slab in expectancy.

"Just trust me, alright?" The blogger said, taking a step closer to his friend and preparing to shake things up a bit.

Instead, the other was struck by a wave of sentimentality. "I do," He whispered. "I've always trusted you with my whole life." He said, watching the doctor vulnerably from underneath his fringe; staring up at him for once.

"Me too." John answered, then cleared his throat and got back to business. They needed to figure out who this maniac was, and how the hell he managed to pull it off before he decided to try again. "Okay, now pretend I'm a vampire."

"You, a vampire?" Sherlock asked in friendly mocking, finally standing up and waiting for the other to begin their alternative forensic experiment. He would be lying if he said it wasn't incredibly intriguing. "What sort of vampire wears those appalling jumpers?" He gestured to the other chest, which was covered with his black and white striped jumper.

"Behave! I'm trying to help." John glared at him and positioned Sherlock comfortably before going to stand behind him. "Now, I'm a vampire and I'm about to kill my next victim." He said straightening his back to his full height and taking on a predatory pose. Ready for the attack.

"You mean me." Sherlock stated, curiously wanting to turn around and look at what his flatmate was doing; but the other stopped him and motioned him to stay still in the spot.

"God knows I've wished to do that once or twice." John muttered playfully, before tying the other's scarf around his eyes, in invitation for him to go down to his mind palace and concentrate on the trees instead of the forest.

"Fine," The genius responded and took a deep breath. "You're a vampire and-"

 _The moon would be hanging high, full as it had to be. The shadow behind him would be chasing him with an inhuman pace. He had to run, fast; even if he knew he had no way of getting away. He could not stand there and let the other attack him. The figure had to have shown criminal intent of some sort, some weapon or threat that made him desperate to get away. But what?_

 _He had wasted time thinking about it, and his chaser was getting near. He could already feel him at his back, just a breath behind. One single false move and the claws would be digging in his skin._

 _Once he grabbed him there would have to be a struggle. Violent from one party, but infinitely desperate from the other. Even if the creature wanted to bite him and literally suck the life out of him, he would have to get him still first. Vampire bats usually preyed when the victim was asleep, or incredibly vulnerable. Alcohol! The level of consumption was significantly higher after a social gathering, the victim would be clumsy, not at all able the coordinate out of that grip. He would stagger forward and sideways. He would try to break free nonetheless, or risk a bite._

 _The lowered motor skills would help, but that would not be enough to immobilise him completely. The vampire would need something different to neutralise the conflict. Something like neuromuscular blocking agents. Just like Cobra snakes, their victim would be completely still as the predator had a chance to feed. And that is exactly what they were missing, if the victim did indeed die from complete blood loss, there would have to be a paralysing agent present to make it possible. And if said substance had not come out as strange in the tests —even with the bloodstream particularly absent— it meant the victim had to have been expected to already include it in their system._

"Does he have access to her medical records?" Sherlock blurted as he resurfaced from his self-induced fallacy. All thoughts of razor-sharp white teeth sinking into his neck forgotten in favour of the more apparent and obvious fact. John laughed startled from behind him.

The detective ripped off the scarf around his head and smiled at his friend. His somewhat dubious alternative approach had worked. "I need you to go," He told John. "Find out everything we can about Mr. Masters, and the Hollens family. Specially about her doctor." He stood up and started walking towards the exit, with the soldier not far from him.

"And what will you be doing, then?" The blonde asked.

"The anti-coagulant they must have used is very rare not to turn up in the tests, so I have to see if I can get a sample of it." He responded. "I need to find the crime scene." There were still things they couldn't quite explain yet, but if they manage to figure out the components leading to her complete exsanguination, they might be able to track the one who had the means to do it.


	5. Hunt At Night

**Hunt At Night**

Sherlock was walking through the forest, quickly taking in the details in every tree and bush. The leaves and mud present in the victim indicated the real crime scene —at least the place where the prey was apprehended— was near that section of the forest. Meanwhile he had Lestrade on speaker-phone, who was accounting some of the information he gathered by questioning Samuel.

"It would have been more efficient if you'd have let me do the interview." The detective grumbled as he inspected the tracks of grass. "You didn't get anything of importance." The trail led deeper into the trees, and the curly-haired man followed it like a hound following a scent.

"Well, he said he refused to talk to you since you turned him away before." The voice berated through the speaker. "Not to say I blame him." Clearly the brother had let the DI frustrated too. This case was completely baffling, the answer kept evading them and it was starting to grate on everyone's nerves. "And I'm sorry Sherlock but I don't think the doctor could have anything to do with this."

"What?" The younger man asked, "Why not?" He said, sure the police had missed something or drawn out completely wrong conclusions, it certainly wouldn't be the first time.

"Turns out her very _female_ , very pregnant doctor is on maternity leave since last Tuesday." Gavin responded, not at all fazed by the ice coming out of the other man. He seemed to be getting better at handling a seething consulting detective.

The silver gazed man sighed in frustration, every clue lead them straight into a dead end, and he refused to consider —even for a second— that all of the drivel in books and legends could ever be true. "What about Mr. Masters?" He asked instead. The sun was already going down, and if he lost the light all his search would be hindered by a flashlight, which he always hated to do. "What did you find about him? Criminal record? Connection to the victim?" Sherlock needed the clay for the bricks, because right then, their wall seemed quite pathetic. Any information he had been able to deduce from their meeting had become tainted by that comparison to an impossible creature, like water spoils with just a drop of blood.

"Turns out we don't know anything about him." Lestrade said, a faint noise could be heard of the other shuffling papers around. The NSY could be full of idiots who never even bothered to _attempt_ to do their job, but at least the DI was throughout to the fullest of his capacity. "There are too few documents containing his name, and none from before fifteen years ago." He explained. "We don't really know where he came from."

"Brilliant." The boffin exclaimed. He stopped walking when he found something promising and started pulling off more leaves. "He must be operating on a fake name." A sudden noise from the distance caught his attention, but after a few more seconds of silence he let it pass. John's paranoia must have been rubbing off on him.

"That is what we thought too. Except that we can't really find why, he seems to have appeared out of nowhere." The older man said. "We don't know where to keep looking." The exhaustion could be heard through the phone, and the detective was too riled up to continue talking to someone as tired as Lestrade, so he asked to be transferred to his blogger.

As his friend passed the phone to John, the genius inspected a wet spot he had found in the middle of a clearing. It wasn't much, but going by the taste it was blood; if it was human he could be looking at the real place where Ms. Hollens had been attacked. When he managed to recreate and retrace her steps all the answers would be clear.

"We have been looking for his work too." John's voice sounded from the tiny speaker on the mobile, and Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn't feel a bit relieved that he had decided to send John away before coming there. The sky had already gone completely dark.

"And you didn't find anything." He said, already knowing the answer. This man was a complete mystery. Wrapped himself in so many layers of shadows it was impossible to read him correctly, or to draw accurate conclusions. He was guilty, of the murder —of something else; but he was guilty of something. He had seen it since they first met him; still, he just couldn't pin it down. Something was incorrigibly wrong with him but it was too nebulous for him to understand it. Another noise could be heard, closer this time, but still as evasive. The detective had the sudden urge to finish, he had no desire to deal with stray animals at the moment.

"Nothing." The blonde confirmed. The detective crouched down to gather some blood as a sample to take to the lab later, unconsciously working faster than usual. The situation smelled of danger, and even if he usually thrived under such circumstances, this time it just made him anxious to leave for an inexplicable reason.

Vampires had never and will never exist; of that he was sure. But if not that, then what? What could it possibly be? This completely human killer was clever, cleverer than most of them —him as the exception, of course— but in no way one to treat as you would a lower class of criminal.

"It's like he barely exists." John continued, clearly baffled himself. His breathing changing with the distinctive pattern of someone worried, it was apparent the case was not making him curious, but very much terrified, this only served to exacerbate the detective's restlessness. He had to hurry up.

"He does, John." The other assured, as the sound multiplied. "We saw him. He was right there." Maybe there was a part of him that felt worried he would encounter a truth uglier than a blood-sucking fairytale, but they could not afford to lie to themselves now. Truth. Truth was the only thing that would bring them peace and clarity. Without the answers they were drifting in the dark.

"There's something else." His flatmate said. The tone of his voice was hesitant, as if he was still deciding whether it was smart to let the next words run out of his mouth. If John did not want to tell him the facts, it was bad news.

"What is it?" The younger man asked. The position of vulnerability chilled him to the bones, his head was fogging. "John!" He demanded impatiently.

"I checked the pictures." The other said in explanation, which did anything but really explain what was happening to him. The samples he had to collect kept coming, as the trail led him deeper still into the trees; a line of blood as his guide.

"What pictures?" He asked distractedly, the noise was back, and this time it sounded closer, more powerful and he couldn't find to which animal it belonged inside his mind palace.

"I took pictures of Mr. Masters." The doctor insists. "He doesn't show on any of them." He said, his voice shaking quite terribly.

"Maybe the angle was wrong." At this point Sherlock was willing to ignore even the most obvious of facts in place of believing this was actually happening. The crime scene, the real one was just there and he could do nothing more than worry at moving shadows and strange creaking noises.

"No, Sherlock." John reiterated, and Sherlock took him off speaker and pressed the mobile to his ear. "I'm sure of what I took. You are there, but he isn't"

There were more noises now, seeming to come closer. This couldn't be happening to him again. Baskerville was bad, but this was worse. His hands were sweating and his jaw trembled, he had managed to work himself into a state and the barely there voice of the most important person in his life, his only anchor, was proving incapable of bringing back.

"John, that is non-sense! This is in _no_ way paranormal." He accused. "There are no such things as vampires!" The boffin yelled. Losing his patience. The deductions about the clear struggle track on the grass were circling his mind with the new information, and his brain refused to process it. He rejected the mere idea of it. He had to keep his head about him. He had to stay clever if he wanted to come out of this.

"You can't deny it!" His friend said. "The man only comes out at night, has no reflexion and apparently has no job-"

"Shut up!" The other said, because the sound appeared again, from another angle. He couldn't see anything through the darkness, but he was not being hunted, he couldn't be.

John didn't take the hint, and continued his terrified rant over the phone. "I don't understand that either, with the house he has! If it weren't for the inheritance the Hollens wouldn't even be able to afford it-"

That brought the detective pause. "What inheritance?" He asked, standing up and turning around. The noises were coming from all around him now. Shakingly grasping the phone to his face.

"The castle," The soldier commented. "Their unce had a castle in some Western European country."

And just like that, everything stopped. The noises, the fear. The answer was within his reach. Finally a lead that could make sense out of this chaos. After this revelation, the forest seemed eerily quiet, almost unnaturally so, but much better than those horrible noises, probably conjured up by his frightened mind. Now that he knew something real they had gone away.

"I know what happened." Sherlock said, and it was the last thing John heard before there was a violent noise coming from somewhere close and the line was disconnected abruptly. Five hours later, his mobile laid there, discarded on the grass at the place Ms Hollens was attacked and the detective was still not found.


	6. Think Like Sherlock Holmes

**Chapter 6:**

 **Think Like Sherlock Holmes**

"John, you need to calm down." Greg said as the other was shaking; properly freaking out. They had left the Yard as soon as Sherlock stopped answering, but they apparently arrived to the scene too late. The detective was gone without a trail, and his phone was broken on the ground. Since then, all contact with him had ceased and they had no clue where he was or what was happening.

"He's gone." The blonde muttered in anguish. "He's gone again." He looked like he was about to fall over, Lestrade did not want to go through this again. He had been the first to get to the scene the time their friend fell from Saint Bart's all those years ago, and the blogger was showing more distress now than he did even then. All those pent up emotions flooding back to leave him utterly vulnerable and a pile of despair. The DI could not let him lose hope now.

"Look, John." The older man said grabbing his friend by the shoulders in an attempt to calm him down, or at least make him stop trembling so much. "We _will_ find him." He promised, even if he wasn't sure of it himself, he needed to have the strength to pull the doctor back from the brink of a panic attack.

"He took him." The soldier concluded, letting himself be guided to sit on a fold-up chair. The way he said those words sounded as if he had been robbed of something, which he sort of had. His blue eyes looking a merge of grief and wrath, whoever had the curly-haired man had something stronger than an army coming for them.

"Who?" Lestrade asked him. Even if he had a brief suspicion of whom he was talking.

"The bloody vampire!" He exclaimed, "He took him and I'm going for him." He resolved, making to stand up. Fortunately, Greg acted quickly and prevented him from running rampant and killing the man before they really had any proof he was in on this. Sherlock had seemed quite convinced of his involvement, but that didn't mean they could just pin this on him; for all they knew the detective could have run off —not that he was ever going to suggest something like that to the blogger. He had no desires of ending up in a side cliff.

"John, they already searched his house." The DI was aware of how traumatic and hard it had to be for his friend, being in that situation —hell! it was difficult on him too— but telling white lies would get them nowhere fast. "He's not there." He stated with finality.

"He has to." The shorter man looks positively close to breaking, desperate for any lead on where the detective could be. "The last thing he said to me was that he knew what had happened, so he _must_ have him."

Lestrade lowered his body to be on eye level with the dejected doctor in front of him, he hoped comforting him for this was close to comforting a child at a crime scene, he failed to know what else he could do. "Look, We are going to find him, okay?" He promised. "But we need to stay focused." The other seemed to slowly come back to his own self and nodded softly. Good, they were making progress. "No more panicking on me, alright?" The older man sighed in relief when the other shook his head and parroted a quiet 'alright' back to him.

John's breathing started coming back to normal, but the detective knew the worry in his eyes would not abate until they had the boffin back there with them once more. "We need to find him, and fast." He said, as he helped the blonde stand up and make their way to his patrol car. They were in dire need of information and coffee that the cold forest could no longer provide. "The faster we figure out what Sherlock found out, the sooner we'll get him back."

"He-" The blogger started talking but his voice shook, after a brief pause to gather his strength back, then continued. "He seemed to come to a realisation before we lost contact." He commented, scratching the back of his neck in apprehension. "I told him about the pictures and the castle."

"But what does that have to do with anything?" The DI questioned, it really made no fathomable sense in any way. The connection, the real _motive, means and opportunity_ too distant, and they still hadn't figured out how he had managed to drain her blood completely. They were beyond lost.

"Beats me." The other agreed, getting inside the passengers seat and anxiously bouncing his leg up and down. Lestrade decided against commenting on it. "You know he never shares all his theories."

Grabbing the steering wheel but being careful of not losing his sight on John completely, Lestrade pulled off the driveway and into the street. "What he worked out is the reason we can't find him. If something took him, this is why." He said, and poked with his finger a stack of case-files they had gathered in their investigation.

"Yes, but how are we supposed to figure it out?" The blogger asked, as the both of them had honestly no idea of where to even start searching, they just knew they had to.

"We need to solve this on our own." Said Greg. "The way _he_ would."

—o—o—

"I don't get it," The frustrated voice of the DI resonated through the walls of the NSY now that the sun was coming up. "I don't know what we are suppossed to be finding, everything seems to lead back to Masters, but if it was him, it wasn't at his house."

John stood from his chair and started pacing, the way Sherlock often did when an answer was evading him. "What about the castle?" He asked. "Did you find something about that? Maybe a vengeful distant relative?" At that point, any crazy theory would suffice. "Maybe that's where Masters came from, and he changed his name so they wouldn't recognise it."

"Nothing about other relatives here." Lestrade said flipping through the files for the one-hundredth time. At the risk of losing his mind in frustration. "This is useless." They had exhausted any resources that were available, even Mycroft Holmes had no clue where his brother was or why they had taken him. "Where are you, you bloody git?" He muttered under his breath.

"I wish I knew." John came to sit on the chair closest to his friend, and the DI had a front-row seat to the incredibly deep sadness in the other's eyes that was impossible to mask; if he was worried out of his mind, he failed to understand how the younger man must be feeling. After a moment of silence the doctor admitted, "I told him, you know."

"Told him what?" Greg inquired. Even if he had an idea of exactly _what_ the other had said.

"You know what." The other insisted, grumbling as if he refused to say the words to any other than the one for which he felt them.

"Oh," Was the only thing the older man could reply. "And what did he say?" Honestly, he couldn't have imagined Sherlock's reaction, but he hoped they finally got their heads out of their arses.

"Nothing," The other admitted, stubbornly refusing to look at him when he was saying that, the conversation had clearly left a mark. Maybe that was why things had been so strange between them. "I didn't really give him a chance. As soon as it was out, I chickened out and hid in my room for hours, by the time I came down we had a new client and…" He trailed off, hoping for his friend to fill in the blanks, which he did. "You didn't gather the courage again." He said, knowing he had hit the jackpot at the expression the other gave him.

"Yep," John accepted. "I know he's waiting for me to say something but he was so riled up, and I just couldn't. And then this." He gesture to their unfortunate situation.

"Honestly, you two," Lestrade exclaimed, the doctor must have been feeling even worse about it, all the unanswered questions. "Well, let's make sure you two have that conversation." He said, his determination heightened, he cared too much about his friends to let anything happen to either of them, they needed each other and they _needed_ to get the detective home again. "Let's start from the beginning again."

The soldier nodded, conviction restored. "Alright."

"And John?" The detective waited until the other raised his head from the papers he was already revising again. "Took you long enough." It was meant as a joke and a congratulation, but it fell out flat when he saw the haunted expression of his friend.

"Too long." John admitted.

—o—o—

Something wasn't right. Of that Sherlock was sure the moment he came to. Even before opening his eyes he could sense something was different; specially since he remembered —or failed to remember— being pierced with something and knocked to the ground.

Now, as he tried to move and found himself completely incapable of doing so, his fears all came rushing back. His hands were unresponsive and all his body felt heavy and impossible to manipulate. His sight the only thing he could really control and in that moment he wished he didn't. The soft cloth that sheathed the lid intensifying in colour as slowly his vision came back to focus and he found out he was trapped, not able to move and locked inside what was most definitely was a coffin.


	7. Exsanguination

**Chapter 7:**

 **Exsanguination**

His synapses were firing up, trying to think past the slow haze and come up with a solution for his problem. His mind palace going into overdrive, trying to keep himself from panicking; he needed to save all the oxygen he could, he didn't know how much time he was expected to be there, and breathing had become crucial. Even if he often found himself in the most bizarre and ridiculous of situations, Sherlock never anticipated someday waking up trapped inside a casket. An emergency plan had been developed for cases similar to this, he just never accounted for him being paralysed while locked too.

As the minutes slowly dragged on, his list of ideas grew thin, up unto the point where the fear inside him was making him shiver involuntarily, not doing anything to help his situation. Thoughts of chocking and death started seeping into his brain, and he found himself in the unfamiliar circumstance of silently wishing for someone to help him if he could not help himself. For the police to do their job for once and get him out of that quadrangular hell. Would they find him in time? And what about John? What would he do if he was found as the new victim of their killer?

The neuromuscular blockers appeared to have been strong, since even with his history his body was not immune to them, not even a little bit. Still, no drug stays in your system forever, and as the paralysers gave way to his movements, he chose to fight. Albeit uncoordinated gestures, they were better than nothing. His fists hitting on the lid and his knees pounding with all his strength. The box appeared not to break away to his weak attack, but it was enough to clarify that he had not yet been buried, so he had one thing working out for him. Piercing through it, even just a tiny slit, would save him from immediate dead, making ready to die at a later moment.

Just as he was about to manage on separating two of the wooden planks which held together the main planes of its structure, the detective could hear distant steps, coming nearer and neared each time. By the time he managed to adquiere a small ray of light passing through, a deep sound resonated through the room in which he must have been placed. The vampire's den.

"I know you now," Sherlock said. He was completely aware he was being ridiculed. A trap meant to scare him more than kill him, and he was loathed to admit it was working to perfection. No matter how sure he was of his answer to the riddle, the actual terrifying feeling he experienced was enough to render him numb once more. The other just laughed cruelly, tapping a slight rythym on the covering of the casket. "I know why you did it." The boffin said, as more wood kept coming away at his touch. He was aware it would be futile, even if he managed to tear through the whole coffin, he was still somewhat disabled and right inside the claws of his would be murderer. His chances of survival kept decreasing.

"I was counting on it," The voice admitted, walking around him like a shark would his prey; getting tools out of drawers going by the sound of it. "In fact, I would have been very disappointed if we hadn't found ourselves in this situation," The casual tone in which he spoke of his imminent demise sent shivers down the detective's back; as if it were no more than a meeting between old friends. He instantly thought he was sort of right, _death personified_ had come looking for him at last. "Right now, I'll say it has been an absolute pleasure, Mr Holmes." He got close and put his hands at the edge of the opening. Slowly unclasping locks and hinges.

"I wish I could say the same," Sherlock replied, dismissing the fact that he was terrified out of his skin. "Mr. Hollens." Said he, just before said man came into view.

Samuel wore a big, bright smile, the sort you only see on particularly clear days. It was remarkable, the way he could hide in plain sight and no one would ever think anything amiss. "Took you long enough." He said, grabbing the limp detective from under the arms and howling him out of the coffin. Carrying him to place him on a table. "But I knew you'd find out," The boffin flayed and tried to twist out of his grip, but he was still too weak to make any real damage. When his wrists and ankles were strapped unto the hard surface beneath him, he knew he had walked right out of the grave only to jump helplessly into another one, one more permanent this time.

"Of course you did," He managed to mutter feebly. The pinprick on his arm starting to make him feel dizzy once more. "That's why you came to me in the first place," He said as his eyes were closing again.

"Yes, I did," Samuel admitted. "And you didn't want to help me," There was a small sound on his side, the sound of someone shuffling things around wood. Once the detective saw what they were, he tried to break free once more, but it was no use; he was helpless, at the whims of this maniac, presented to be drained alive. "I wonder if you believe I will listen to your cries for mercy now." He said, dragging a big container next to the side of the table. "That didn't help her either."

"Your own sister," Sherlock said in disgust. "All because of her share of the inheritance." The fingers on his hands twitching, trying in vain to free him from his fate. The metal piercing rod Samuel was fingering glinting against the light coming from the fluorescent lamp above them.

The other had the nerve to look offended. "No! don't talk about it like it's bloody tragic," He said. "The woman was a bitch, she never took me seriously," A small tube was being inserted in the needle for his control drainage, his death would hurt and take hours. "Just like you," He said. "And now you both will be… empty."

Sherlock's breathing reached the high levels again, he needed to work through the horror and keep him talking, keep him distracted. Buying for time before his exsanguination. Waiting for John to arrive before it was too late. "And Mr. Masters?" The detective inquired, his voice sounding more like a whisper than an actual sentence. "You could have pin this on anyone," He commented. "But vampires-"

"I needed a story everyone would want to believe except you." The thin excruciating pain shot through his whole body when Samuel pierced through the skin on his neck, finding a point where he would surely die from blood loss, but he would do so slowly.

As the blood started tricking down his nape, his thoughts swirled even more. The murderer in front of him had planned it all to perfection. Even the fact that he managed to see through his ruse in trying to incriminate his neighbour for his sins made no difference. He was still going to die, and maybe he will even get away with it.

"Better to lie down and relax." Samuel said after he took the seat right next to him, running his squeaky clean hands over the detective's neck hungrily. "The long night will be here soon."

—o—o—

He could feel the life slowly draining out of him like a gentle breeze, every second his body became weaker and his mind wandered even more. He found himself thinking about John. Flawless, loyal John. Who would never quite understand the impact he had had on the life of his friend. The day he came limping into a lab and bled dry the existence of one mad consulting detective, only to replace it with his own ever-living happiness. Now more than ever he longed to see him, even for a moment. But he had been left for dead and there was nothing he could do now. Months from then, his blogger would clean the flat after burying an empty casket and find hundreds of notes addressed to him and the detective would just unknowingly rot away from existence.

"Can you feel it Mr. Holmes?" Samuel said, his face floating above the blurred vision of the boffin. "Life deserting you?" He smiled, an eerie, sinister thing that made him believe in the existence of beings made out of pure evil for a second. He may not be a vampire, but that did not mean that he was any less of a heartless monster. "Your muscles spasming?" He asked. "Your heart beating at miles per hour?"

That seemed to light up a dim light inside the detective's brain, the final piece of the puzzle clicking seamlessly into place. His eyes wide open from the revelation. "P-pa-ce." He tried to say, but just a thin fragile whistling sound could be extracted. Samuel leaned closer even more to hear him correctly, clearly amused at his last attempt to win. "Sorry what?" He removed his hand from the other's neck and placed it around his own ear in mocking.

"Pa-pacemaker-" Sherlock managed to get out. "H-how you-"

"Oh, very good," Samuel stood back a bit to asses him, seemingly trying to understand how the genius had figured that out. "One final brilliant deduction for the renowned detective." He teased. "You did it, you solved it! ' _Sherlock Holmes disproves vampires._ '" He gestured a headline on the air. "The story of the decade." He sat back down on the chair and unfolded his hands from the figure before him. "Too bad it will never print."

After that, there was a loud crash somewhere in the distance, but the detective had no mind for it now. It was futile, he was going to die in that room. The sound would cease, the eternal darkness would welcome him with open arms and the sun would never rise for him again.

—o—o—

"He's out there and I can't help him." John raged. Kicking the chair next to him, tired and worried sick after hours of reviewing file after file at the Yard. Nothing seemed to lead them closer to his detective.

"No, we can't," Lestrade admitted, running a hand through his grey strands of hair. Their inability to locate him was feeding John's panic —and with good reason, if they failed to find Sherlock fast then it would cease to matter really soon, the odds of that happening were rising every second they took. "But this is Sherlock we're talking about." He tried to encourage the doctor, to keep him fighting. "He might be an arse, but he is a damn good detective. He would have found a way to let us know what was happening." He said, pacing the room like the soldier had done earlier. Stopping to speak this last sentence to John directly. "He would never leave you like this."

The blogger thought this over, and he found he actually felt somewhat comforted by the words. Sherlock was smart, and maybe that would help him figure out a way to scape, to come back home. To set himself free from a vampire, or whatever that man was. He would never leave him like that, not without saying goodbye. Not without a note. John's eyes widened like saucers at the thought, if he left something in his phone for him, the officers in Scotland Yard which had searched the contents of said mobile would not know it, would never recognise it; but he would.

Quickly snatching the plastic bag from the evidence box and ripping it open, he desperately turned it on and started searching. Muttering soft phrases of ' _please_ ' and _'come on'_. The other hovering over his shoulder to try and see what he was on to. When he found a file named 'Vatican Cameos' the doctor felt he could cry in relief. "Oh, you genius." He whispered proudly to the thin air. "You perfect, mad genius."


	8. Immortalise

**Author's note: This is the final episode of the installment. I hope you all liked it.**

—o—o—

 **Immortalise**

The scene before him was definitely snatched out of John's most horrible nightmares. Sherlock laid sprawled out on the table, a tube attached to his neck with the clear sign of blood flowing through it. In a flurry of rage and a need to protect, John threw himself to the killer and managed to push him aside to get to the detective. He would always be his priority.

As Lestrade struggled with the attacker and attempted to immobilise him, the doctor was tearing the tubes out of his friend, assisting in any way a medical man could, all the while not straying his sight from his friend's eyes. Droopy and confused but so very filled with life still, that he felt so grateful he could have dropped to the floor and cried in relief.

They had found him. They had finally found him, and he was going to be alright. After realising the detective would most certainly have a plan for them to find him, John had managed to get to the file on his phone; and the tracker on his person told him were to locate him. The soldier wasn't sure exactly _where_ on his person it was, and he figured he didn't really want to know. All that he cared about now was that Sherlock was safe and the bastard who did this to him was apprehended —probably for good, otherwise John would had made sure he vanished.

After getting his detective out of all the straps and binds, he lifted his torso up from the table and gave him a warm hug. "Jesus, Sherlock." He said, as Greg was dragging the culprit away to take into the police car. "You almost got killed." The doctor held him to his chest, placing soft kisses into the other's curls. "I thought I was going to lose you." The fear in his voice was enough to give the other pause.

The languid genius smiled genuinely and whispered. "Oh, John. Don't you know by now?" The blogger slid his hands under the other's legs and wrapped his arms around his neck, careful not to disturbe the hasty bandages. He picked him up to carry him into the ambulance parked outside on the cul-de-sac. Confused and curious, the blonde inquired for an explanation, to which the younger man just shrugged weakly and smirked. "I'm immortal."

The soldier laughed nervously as he quickly walked through the rooms in the house. "You idiot." He commented affectionately; Sherlock smiled but seemed to settle down in a slight doze once more. The blood loss was clearly taking its toll. The blonde pressed him to his figure a moment in comfort, even if the other was too out of it to actually feel it. Then, he placed him on the gurney inside the ambulance and climbed on too.

—o—o—

"He took advantage of the maternity leave of his sister's doctor to break into the office and steal the machine and substances he needed." The detective explained from the hospital bed he was refused to leave. "Once he managed to get her paralised, it was so easy to plug her to the machine and program the pacemaker to force her heart to beat way faster; thus aiding in her complete drainage of blood in much less than half the time it would have taken otherwise." The boffin concluded, wearing a smirk that had no right of being so constructed while having been close to murder little more than 24 hours before.

"So, this was all just for a castle?" Greg asked, looking up from his notepad where he was accounting for everything that had happened. Taking the detective's statement in a hospital was not an unusual occurrence.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "Samuel got greedy, and figured that as the only relatives left, if his sister suddenly were to disappear he would also get her share of the inheritance. It didn't help that he was fed up with his little sister always dismissing him." John came to stand beside him and sat on the bed, careful not to crowd too much into the other's space, the curly-haired man was still slightly—secretly— weary of closed spaces.

"And Mr. Masters?" Greg continued his inquiry, eager to be done with it all and just go home and rest now that the detective had been found.

"Mr. Hollens needed someone to take the fall for all of it, so he created a story that he was sure I would not believe but would be enough to draw suspicion." The genius explained. "The rest of it was just opportune subject and suggestion. The same reason why he refused to be interviewed by me; he was afraid I would see through his ruse."

"Blimey, so he's not a vampire?" The older man asked, just for the sake of clarity, those things tend to matter in a official statement. Sherlock seemed annoyed with his question and rolled his eyes, apparently he's taking too long with this.

"Certainly not." He replied shortly. "He's clearly just a very closed up man with no family and a nocturnal job which makes him keep odd hours." _Not unlike myself,_ he thought. The only difference was that he didn't go around pretending to be a fictional character.

The DI sighed. "Jesus! I need a break." He exclaimed under his breath.

"And something stronger than coffee." Sherlock finished. "John, take him out. I need to arrange my mind palace." He ordered, clearly having hit he daily quota of ' _nonsensical drivel_ ' as he often put it.

John, however was hesitant to leave him. Their relationship was still seventeen hours old, and he had no desires of deserting the detective so fast, —not to mention he was almost bled dry in the very near past— but he understood the importance of giving the genius his space. "You'll be okay, love?" He asked. Grabbing the other's arm in affection.

"I think I can manage a couple of hours without getting killed." The younger man replied sarcastically, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a playful smirk.

"God, I hope so." Was the only thing John could reply.

—o—o—

"I'm so glad for you two." The cheerful voice of Mr.s Hudson could be heard in the sitting room all the way to the kitchen. The two of the other residents were seated a the desk, each doing their own thing. "I always knew it." She finished, smiling genuinely at both of them.

"Well," The detective started. "He managed to convince me." He commented while not moving his eyesight from the paper he was reading.

The blogger, who was sitting across the table updating his blog smiled at the friendly quip. "Behave." He said. Kicking the other's leg lightly under the desk.

"Oh, it's so lovely." The landlady cooed, clearly ecstatic that they had finally done what she had wanted since the very beginning. She left them alone a few minutes after that, saying goodbye and letting them enjoy their home now that they were both back in it.

"So," The blogger stopped typing and said. "Case closed." The smiles on both their faces were radiant, even if they knew they will not be able to giggle forever, there had already been a few rows since this started.

"Tedious. When's the next one?" The boffin asks, drumming his fingers on the wooden surface of the table impatiently.

John laughed a bit. "You just got back from the hospital three hours ago." He reminded him, and stood up to fetch the tea Mrs. Hudson had left brewing. Walking cheerfully to the kitchen and returning with a full teapot and two cups for them.

"Exactly!" The genius exclaimed, throwing his head back in half-mock half-real exasperation. "Three whole hours. What's happened since then?" His hands carded through his own curls and he tugged in frustration. It was amazing to John how much stimulation Sherlock needed on a daily basis. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at his flatmate in assessment. The boffin sighed and lounged on his chair. "The important thing is: the case is solved and, like I always said, there is no such thing as vampires." The detective brought his cup to his own lips and took a sip.

John smiled and did the same. "Cheers!" He commented. However, after a few more seconds of silence, he cleared his throat and conversationally said. "You know what I don't get, though?" He asked.

"Mm?" The other inquired distractedly, taking another sip from his perfectly brewed cup of tea.

"If Samuel made it all up just to throw us off his scent," He said, frowning as he did so. "Then why didn't Masters show up in any of the pictures?"

There was a load crash as the teacup in the detective's hands fell and shattered into a million pieces.

 **Happy Halloween!**


End file.
